Human
by the-ryter121
Summary: There are always going to be casualties when you let a lamb run with wolves.


His ears were ringing, a sharp sound with a rough metallic edge, which he found odd. Why would his ears be ringing? He realized that his eyes were closed too, and he found he didn't quite have the energy to open them, especially since the ringing in his ears was being swiftly replaced by a dull pounding in his head. It was set to the rhythm of his erratic heartbeat. There was a nagging thought in the back of his mind, that there must have been something going on, something important, and that he needed to be awake. He wrenched his eyes open, a mistake, judging by the sharp pain that shot through his brain. He blinked rapidly, blood, he assumed, had dripped from his forehead and into his eyes, and he brought his right hand up to swipe at them. Another mistake. That's when the pain really began. He let out a mangled shout, blood thick in his throat. Don't know when that happened. He'd never felt pain quite like it, fire and ice and steel shooting through his side, and skittering across his skin like lightning with every breath. His hands and feet were tingling, like he'd been sleeping wrong, and they'd gone to sleep.

Everything was sharp in focus now, metallic taste in his mouth and his hip digging into the floor beneath him. Nothing quite as sharp as the six inches of glass protruding from his abdomen, stuck between two of his ribs. It moved whenever he breathed. Weird. He could hear crashes and incoherent sounds of violence all around him, but his world had shrunk, his vision clouded, and he couldn't get his erratic brain to focus on much of anything but the pain gnawing away at his side. He must have been knocked out for a while, he surmised, by the amount of blood he could see, creeping away from him in a pool that was inching toward the tips of his numb fingers on his extended left arm. It takes a while to bleed to death. Time must have been passing, faster than he realized, slipping away like his blood on the floor. He could still feel the pain, biting at him, and his heart and lungs laboring to keep him alive, but it was all so far away now, removed. Maybe that was the concussion, or shock, he mused.

He had thought about dying a fair amount since Scott had become Teen Wolf Extraordinaire, but he hadn't pictured it like this. Dying heroically would have been ideal. It looked more like he had gotten tossed like a ragdoll through a glass window, than that he had made the noble sacrifice. In another time he might have been disappointed, but it was hard to feel much of anything when a numbness was spreading through you, leaving white noise in its wake. He realized he didn't have the strength to raise his hand to his numb lips, even if he'd felt so inclined. He opened his eyes, though they were hazy, and groaned with the effort of such a small action. Suddenly a thought occurred to him, and he groaned again. He was going to die a virgin. He had enough life left in him to realize how fucking embarrassing that was.

Without warning, a shape moved into his vision, a shape that looked pretty human, though he had learned well enough in the last few months that that was an unsafe assumption. He opened his mouth to say something, to cry out maybe, but all he got was a gurgle and a respectable amount of blood dribbling down his chin. He couldn't quite make out the face that was floating in front of him, but the last he saw before his vision collapsed completely into black, were blood-red eyes, fading back into a stormy grey-green.

When he woke again it was like he was being pulled out from beneath a very heavy blanket. He was still numb around the edges, but this was the sleepy numbness of medication, not death. It was dark when he woke, but he could see that everything within two feet of the bed in which he had been firmly tucked away was a muted white. The smell of antiseptic stung his nose. He had spent enough time in one to recognize it in seconds. A hospital, not Heaven. Unless of course Heaven was a hospital, which would be pretty shitty. He strained to look around, but there wasn't a single hot nurse in sight. Definitely not heaven then. His eyes focused on a dark shape slumped in a chair by the end of his bed. Predictably, his father rested uneasily by his side, probably traded off with Scott as frequently as he could. Familiar territory for them both, after everything with his mother. He couldn't tell you how many nights he had spent in a chair just like that one, resting nearby, watching her waste away. She had been frail at the end, feverish and waiflike, and he could relate. He didn't think he could have won a wrestling match with a kitten at the moment.

A shape manifested from the dark shadows beyond the doorway, and the beeping monitor next to him betrayed the stuttering of his heart. Derek, who he wouldn't have guessed to be there in a million years, slinked forward into the low light cast by the monitors around him. He was looking dark and brooding, as usual. He crossed his well-muscled arms over his chest.

"What the hell, Stilenski?" he growled out, teeth gritted. Great, Stiles thought, hello to you too. He opened his mouth to bite back a sharp reply, but had to swallow hard to soothe his dry throat. He croaked and tried again, hoarsely.

"Good morning to you too, McBroody. I'm doing fine, thanks for asking!" He kept his voice low, hoping not to wake his father, but he knew the surly wolf could hear him and the sarcastic edge to his words just fine. Derek did nothing to respond, only shifted slight, his focus still consumed with trying to maintain the correct level of dark and dangerous. It's all in the eyebrows, he quipped to himself. Finally, he rolled his eyes, "what do you expect when you let a lamb run with the wolves?" He had meant to say it flippantly, but the truth was a little too heavy, and it hadn't come out quite like he'd imagined. Derek came a step closer, his eyes tight with fear, anger, and a surprising amount of something akin to compassion. The look was too soft for his persona, and Stiles couldn't seem to make the two images fit together. He was hit with an unexpected rush of shame and embarrassment, and he felt his cheeks flame.

He was the only truly weak one left, the only normal one left, and he had never felt it more keenly than this moment, lying in a hospital bed, Derek Hale staring him down from across the room. Unbidden, Peter Hale's words sprung from the dark corners of his mind:

"If it doesn't kill you, and it could, you'll become like us… That first night in the woods I took Scott because I needed a new pack; it could have easily been you. You'd be every bit as powerful as him. No more standing by his side watching him become stronger, and quicker, more popular, watching him get the girl. You'd be equals. Maybe more."

* * *

AN: Just a little something I threw together after "Raving" last week, but didn't get around to posting until now. Kinda AU now, I suppose. Just a one-shot for now, and given my inability to finish anything, I think it'll probably stay that way. Also, rated T, but if you think it should be rated something else, just let me know, and I will change it as soon as I can. Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it.


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